Nothing Gold Can Stay
by not my daughter
Summary: Time doesn't heal wounds; it only pours salt in them, enhancing the burn. Andromeda and Narcissa talk, but find that forgiveness is difficult to reach.


The tapestry is just how I remember it: imposing and beautiful in the way that all of the artifacts from the house are, except now I see it through different eyes than the ones I had when I was only a girl when I came to visit my cousins at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. I see it for what it is, a façade, a masquerade of falsehood, hiding behind ideals that are not only untrue but destructive. Because of that, it has utterly lost its elegance for me now. I see the words _toujours pur_ at the top, and instead of feeling that gratifying rush of pride that I had felt once, I feel only distaste, a bitter feeling in my mouth, for the years I spent adhering to that misguided philosophy.

I know why I came here; that lovely, distracting feeling of having a mission courses through me now, decisive and sure. I run my finger along the golden lines of the tapestry, taking in what might have been my future one last time, and then I let my hand trail away. I think about what I might have missed, and feel no regret.

I attempt to tear it off of the wall, as was my intention, for in truth the Black family perished a long time ago. There are survivors, but we have changed. We are not Blacks any longer, not in truth. There is a Permanent Sticking Charm on the tapestry, and so I back away, seeing it caress the wall as it still stands there, taunting my inability to move it. I study it again, looking at the hole where my name once resided, proud, definitively a Black. My daughter is not on the tapestry, of course, because burn marks don't have children. I can almost feel my insides tighten as I think of my daughter; it has been several months now, but I still find it difficult to forget about her and then remember a moment later.

Filled with the sort of incense that only a mother can know, can feel, I set the tapestry on fire.

The effect is immediate as the flames engulf the tapestry. I watch with a muted pleasure as the tapestry becomes ash, my burn mark lost in the glorious red-orange flames. When I feel certain that it is all gone, all of it, I whisper "_Aguamenti_" and splash water over the fire, dousing it.

I look at the ashes in the mess I've created, realizing that this isn't my property to destroy; it belongs to Harry, Teddy's godfather. I don't wish to explain this to him, even though I think he'll understand. He has avoided the subject of my daughter on the times that we have met, out of courtesy for me, which I appreciate. He will be a good godfather to Teddy, and Teddy is all that matters now.

I scoop up the ashes, conjuring a jar to keep them in, a memory kept in physical form of the glorious days of the Black family, for the tapestry was always what I pictured when I thought of the Black family as a whole. It was never a house or an artifact, simply the majestic, beautiful tapestry that was our history and our future. Those days are over now, but I realize that whatever I do, however destructive I become, I will never fully be free of them. If I let the ashes float away, they will become the wind, whipping my hair into my face and whispering my name, the name that I once had: _Andromeda Black._ Or they might become the water, and haunt me then, when I drink it or bathe in it. So I will keep them here, tucked away, just as I have done for years.

As I leave the house, I see a familiar face that makes me almost drop the jar; I can almost hear it shatter into pieces before I realize that it has not, that my hands are still wrapped around it almost protectively. I turn to leave, not wanting to speak to her, but she grasps my arm.

"Andromeda, wait."

I don't want to wait; I want to be free of this last person who can remind me that I was once a Black, that I once belonged to this family where aunts kill nieces and cousins kill cousins; I want to leave it behind. I want to hate it all; I want to forget about the two sisters that almost held me back from leaving. One of them is buried deep in the ground, but the other is here, her pale hand holding fast to my arm.

"How did you know I was here?" I ask, still not facing her. I pry her hand off of my arm, and I want to Apparate, yet anger mixed with something almost like longing for _family_, something I am so short of now, keeps me there, arms crossed so tight that their force presses against my stomach, my eyes staring straight ahead.

"You forget that I know you."

"Not anymore." I can almost believe it as I speak the words, harsh, intended to cut.

She exhales loudly, almost impatiently, which sets off the anger in me, makes it flare up to the surface. Once I would have fought to control it, but I don't see the point now, when almost all the people I love are dead and I have nothing to live for except a baby boy that needs me.

She moves over so that she faces me; I don't look at her, only turn my head slightly to the side. She bites her lip nervously, a habit that I remember from when we were children, and it sends some emotion – something like nostalgia, or maybe bitterness – through me. This is why I can't see her; the past is too painful to relive, but I can't let go of it and start fresh. That is the problem; that is the consequence of years apart.

"I knew you'd want to burn it all down," says Narcissa. "I didn't know when, but it made me think about everything that's happened to me. So I came here, to look at it, now the spells are off of the house. To remember, I suppose."

"To remember what, Narcissa? That tapestry-" I hold up the jar, fury acting as a salve to the wounds in me that will never, can never, heal. "That tapestry where I'm just a hole, something to be ashamed of? Something you never protested, not in private or public?" Decades' worth of hurt I never knew I felt is coming out of my mouth, and I can't stop it. Narcissa casts a nervous look about, wondering about making a scene, but that's the furthest thing from my mind. "You could have sent me a letter, just one letter, and do you know how happy you would have made me? But you were happy with your perfect life, _perfectly_ happy to ignore the killing and the tortures, while I suffered. It wasn't easy for Ted and me, those first few years, and we were shunned by all the people that I knew and thought were my friends, my family. And that's how it still is, Narcissa. You have it all, and I'm the one suffering."

It is more than I have ever said about the subject, certainly more bitter than anything I've ever voiced, or even felt. Rage still boils in me, fierce and unrelenting, and I smash the jar on the ground, the ashes spilling onto the pavement, dark spots adorning the pale cement. At that moment I don't care about the wind or the water or it coming back to me; I just want to smash and destroy. I think then, unwillingly, that in some ways I am very much like my older sister.

"I'm sorry."

Once, Narcissa never apologized. Like all sisters, we would fight, though for us it was very rare. To this day I'm still not sure if that hurt us more than it helped us, for instead of letting our anger out, we would keep it in, a repressed tempest that would explode then at others. Instead, Narcissa would me give a sad look that said all it needed to and I would forgive her wordlessly. But the words she has just said ring in my ears, screaming to me that _it's different_. But I don't know how, or if it's good or bad, or if I am angry or upset or heartbroken. I think, maybe, I'm all three.

I don't know what to say. She looks hopeful, though wary, and a small part of me wishes it could be that easy – that I could say _I forgive you_ and bridges would be mended and time could be reversed, but the world doesn't work that way. Time doesn't heal wounds, it pours salt into them, only enhancing the burn.

And the truth is that I don't forgive her; I don't forgive her for abandoning me, I don't forgive her for never speaking with me for twenty years; I don't forgive her for still having the ideal life and intact family, while I have lost everything.

So I say what I feel, this time, honest and not worrying about sparing her feelings. "Why should I, Narcissa?"

At this all the hopefulness vanishes from her face like it had never been there, and the fire in me relishes it, enjoys making her feel pain the way I've felt it so keenly over the past few months. I can see that she was counting on her ability to make me feel, make me remember, build on the idea that maybe memories of the past could get to me. It had really been the only weapon in her arsenal when it came to the possibility of forgiveness.

I remember once when Mother, on the rare occasion that she remembered that her daughters existed, read us a story, in which both the hero and heroine die. Bella and Narcissa and I had spoken to each other about it later, before we went to sleep. Narcissa had wondered why they had had to die, and Bella had pointed out "stories don't always have happy endings, Cissy."

And so I repeat Bella's words now, to the sister that I've struck silent: "Stories don't always have happy endings." Who knows that better than me?

"I remember that," she says in a low voice, rough with hurt. My temper has begun to subside, to my irritation, and her sadness does not give me that vindictive happiness anymore.

"I remember that too," I say, harsh now. "But I also remember everything else." I don't need to say anything else; there's no doubt in my mind as to what I refer to. I remember the tears I cried, wondering why she didn't come to visit, even send me a letter, some acknowledgment that I existed.

"And I'm sorry. What more can I say?"

"You can't just expect me to forgive you; I can't believe you would have thought that," I say. It's true. She's not foolish, she's a grown woman, and she should know that forgiveness isn't something she should have expected, especially under the circumstances.

She looks into my eyes, her head high. It strikes me that maybe she still is a Black, and that I was wrong. I had thought that we had both stopped being Blacks months ago, when, for the first time, I felt pure hatred for _toujours pur_ for taking my daughter from me, and her because she had gotten away without any punishment. One thing that I have learned is that Blacks never live happy lives; this is a philosophy that I developed recently, once Dora was taken from me. I had been happy once, but now I feel that part of me is ripped away, gone. Black happiness is fleeting, temporary. I think of Bellatrix, of her wild exhilarated joy in those moments when she tortured and killed. That was gone in an instant, but for her in that moment it must have seemed like it would last forever. That was how it was with Ted and Dora; I thought it would be forever, eternal. In any case, Blacks don't ever really achieve happiness, but I'm forced to accept that Narcissa is an exception to that rule.

And, I think now, maybe being a Black is more than fate; maybe it really is in your blood. Maybe it's not something you can ever change, however much you try. Sirius and I are both testaments to that, aren't we? Our blood caught up with us eventually, to our ruin.

"I don't expect you to forgive me," she says simply, surprising me. "Not now, at least, and maybe never. But I just wanted to say…" she trembles, and I can't tell why. "Andromeda, there was a time when I was _sure_ Draco was going to…be taken from me, and I know that what you're feeling is so much worse, so much more. I only imagined that gaping hole in my heart, but for you, it's actually there."

The fire in me springs back to life, the embers catching light one more time. "How _dare_ you compare your situation to mine? We're nothing alike. You said it yourself. I've lost a child, a husband. You've lost neither. Don't you dare say you know how I feel."

"I don't. But I have some idea of it." She hesitates. "Like I said, I don't expect you to forgive me; I would be a liar if I said I never hoped for it, but I don't expect it. I just wanted…to see you. To let you know that I'm here, if you ever do change your mind. That I want your forgiveness so much…"

"I don't know," I say.

She nods to that. "I understand; if I was you, I wouldn't forgive me either. I know you don't deserve this punishment, Andromeda. But we're family. No, we're more than that, we're sisters, and I know you remember it all. I want to be sisters again, and I understand that you don't, but…" she breaks off then, gaining control of herself before she continues. "That's all, really."

I nod back at her. I try to convey as little feeling as possible; the fire's gone now, and I am simply human, the walls I have built up crumbling into ashes. I know I am not ready to forgive; I don't know if I ever will be. But someday; someday a time may come when I am ready, and it will help to know she will be there.

I have a choice now. I can be harsh and angry and crumble our relationship even further. It is barely repairable now; it cannot take much more strain. But I hold my head high now, and take the higher road. "Thank you," I say, before I leave. The ashes of the Black family are lost in the elements of the world, but we are still Blacks. On some level, we always will be. I was wrong; the Black family _does_ survive in us. It is not completely gone. I think of Teddy and Draco, and me and Narcissa, survivors despite all odds, and think maybe it will always survive, somehow.

I look back at her before I Disapparate, and see the tiniest trace of a smile on her face.

And the tiniest bit of hope.


End file.
